


In Case of a Rainy Day

by pamdizzle



Series: Dreams of Lace and Satin [10]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Healthy Relationships, Late Night Conversations, Lingerie, M/M, Oswald's Umbrellas, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Fantasy, Smut, gobblepot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 23:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15084092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle
Summary: Jim finally reveals his hobby to Oswald, which turns out to be something quite unexpected.Or, the one where Jim is doing questionable things to umbrellas, badly used Hamlet references occur, and Oswald and Jim have important post-coital conversations.





	In Case of a Rainy Day

“Is that so?” Oswald’s voice, acidic with his displeasure, echoes from the kitchen, and Jim looks back over his shoulder form where he is sat on the couch, to see the man pacing, clearly incensed as he listens to whatever the poor schmuck on the other end of the line is saying.

This is supposed to be Oz’s night off, not that he keeps regular hours. Rather, his contractors are days away from breaking ground on the casino hotel, and so Oswald has been keeping an even less conventional schedule than usual. Jim wants to be annoyed that his fiancé took a call during their date—the one night they managed to squeeze in for themselves in the entire week—but, in truth, he is in awe.

Oswald has managed to fund, plan and pull the permits—legally—for his giant yacht in just a little over two months’ time. Granted, Jim is fairly certain Oz stewed on the idea long before deciding to pursue it, but it’s impressive no matter how you cut it.  Jim huffs a laugh as he stretches out along the couch. Once upon a time, Oswald’s tenacity was a source of strife, always finding a way to come out on top and often in direct odds with the law. Now, Jim is…proud, for him and of him, in the face of his latest achievement.

How things have changed.

Mostly.

“If I have to come down there, tonight of all nights, I swear to Christ, heads will be rolling into the river!” Oswald threatens.

It shouldn’t make Jim smile—Oz is almost definitely neither joking nor embellishing—but he can’t help but appreciate the gesture. Besides, Jim knows for a fact Oz hasn’t personally killed anyone since they got together. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t given the order, but Jim honestly can’t prove it and he doesn’t want to think about it. In fact, it’s easier and easier lately to push it from his mind, which should probably worry him more than it does.

After all, Jim is obligated to uphold the law regardless of the circumstances, but he sometimes finds himself traversing through fields of gray where the criminal underworld is concerned. For instance, just last year, a serial rapist creeping on the Siren’s turf wound up dead in a ditch in the Narrows. Jim knew it was Barb, if he’d dug deeply enough he might have even been able to trace the threads back to her directly. But when the forensics team came back with inconclusive findings, he and Harvey had wrapped the case.

It isn’t that Jim has lost faith in the light, but he no longer holds the same conviction that everything can be solved within the system. He’s seen, all too closely, just how long a winding path to justice all that red tape sometimes weaves. He does what he can when the darkness rises up against itself, but these days Jim focuses on keeping the innocent protected from the malevolent wrath of the city’s more bloodthirsty inhabitants.

Sadists, like Firefly and Scarecrow, who burn or otherwise wreak chaos upon entire swaths of the city and the people in it for the ficklest of reasons or, often, no reason at all. Raging, undirected malice exercised by those too far gone to save or redeem. Jim isn’t saying he approves of Barb or even Oswald’s methods but he, at the very least, understands them. Which counts for a lot in curbing their more ruthless endeavors.

It’s easier to mitigate crime when the people running it are capable of seeing reason when it benefits them. However, there are some people—a scary number of them enhanced—that have become even more volatile since the Valeska brothers nearly blew up the city. When it comes down to striking alliances with the underworld, Jim has to weigh his priorities. He often finds, in those times, that it comes down to whether upsetting the current order is worth risking what could rise from its ruins. So far, the general consensus is hell to the no.

Jim wonders, not for the first time, if that isn’t part of the reason he isn’t being demoted, rather than reprimanded, following the audit. All of his arrests and directives as Captain held up under the scrutiny, sure, but Jim wonders if the Commissioner believes his relationship with Gotham’s most notorious ex-con—and alleged kingpin—is actually to the GCPD’s benefit. He’s been trying to wrap his head around their justification for two days now, and it’s honestly the best he can come up with.

His thoughts are interrupted when Oz appears, elbows propped over the back of the couch, his smiling face coming to hover within Jim’s line of sight.

“Everything alright?” Jim asks, reaching up to twirl Oz’s tie around his hand.

“For now.” Oz rolls his eyes. “There was a slight altercation over shipping and receiving at the lounge, but Victor is going to sort it out for me.”

Jim arches a brow.

“No need to worry, James,” Oswald reassures. “It’s nothing capitally offensive.”

“That’s not actually comforting, Oz,” Jim replies, deadpan.

Oswald straightens, taking his tie with him as he limps around the couch. His hand that isn’t gripping his cane, waves dismissively. “Perhaps if it were Zsasz, and while I admit Fries’ methods are most unpleasant, the most he tends to inflict is a minor bout of frostbite.”

“Minor, huh?” Jim snorts.

Oz shrugs, smile twitching at the corner of his lips as he averts his eyes. Jim lifts his legs so Oswald can sit down, lets the man get situated comfortably before plopping his feet into his lap. It earns him a huff, but warm hands wrap around his soles regardless, massaging deep circles into his arches. It saps the tension right out of him.

“You aren’t allowed to fall asleep, James,” Oswald chastises. “We have plans, remember?”

Jim forces his eyes open, doesn’t recall when they’d fallen shut. “M’sorry.”

Oswald smiles at him sweetly, giving his feet a final squeeze, before he holds out a hand for Jim to take. He lets Oz pull him upright, until they’re sitting side by side, but doesn’t relinquish his hand. Instead, he brings it up to his lips and kisses Oz’s knuckles.

“Tell me how things went at the station this afternoon.”

“Not great,” Jim admits, “but not as bad as I thought it would.”

“No rioting in the streets, I take it?” Oz pushes.

“No, just…” Jim sighs. “There’s a couple of ‘em willing to give you the benefit of the doubt because they know me, and others think I’ve lost my mind…” Jim grinds his teeth before he continues irritably, “but most of them congratulated me on running the long con to ensure your cooperation.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Oswald hums and purses his lips.

“I hate to say it,” he says eventually, squinting, “but those all sound like best-case scenarios to me.”

“Maybe,” Jim allows, before speaking his mind. “I don’t like them thinking the only reason we’re together is so I can manipulate you. Like being with you is some kind of hardship. They kept making jokes about marrying the mob and taking one for the team—it’s fucking insulting.”

Oswald frees up his hand from where Jim’s got it entangled with his own between them. He wraps his arm around Jim’s shoulders instead, pulls him against his side and kisses his temple. “Be that as it may, darling, it really is for the best. My mother always said that success is the best revenge. I think that saying also applies to happiness, don’t you?”

“I guess…it’s just.” Jim frowns. “It isn’t fair to you.”

“It’s less fair to you, really,” Oswald argues. “You…make me a better person, Jim. The idea that your goodness would somehow wither in the face of my amorality is insulting to your character. I should break their kneecaps for the insinuation alone.”

Jim snorts. “I have half a mind to let you.”

That earns him a giggle, before Oz sniffs and changes the subject. “Didn’t you have something you wanted to show me?”

“Can’t stand the mystery a second longer, huh?”

“No. I hate surprises,” Oswald replies without an ounce of irony. He winces when he realizes what he’s implied, and adds, “I’m sure I’ll like this one. I didn’t mean—”

Jim takes mercy on him, lifting his head so he can interrupt Oz’s babbling with a quick peck to the lips. He then pushes himself off the couch and holds his hands out in invitation. “Come on.”

Oswald leaves his cane by the couch, taking the arm Jim offers instead, as Jim leads them across the manor to where his workshop resides. Oswald hasn’t been allowed to set one foot inside the room Jim commandeered for his ‘hobby,’ and he knows Oz has been dying to ply him with questions regarding his project, but the man has shown remarkable restraint.

Jim has tinkered into the wee hours of the morning, trudging up to bed to find Oswald reading under the covers, invitingly soft in his nightgowns. It’s instinctual at this point to go right to him, try to touch all that sweet vulnerability. But Oz doesn’t so much as inquire about Jim’s grimy fingers, streaked black with machine oil and grease, simply demands he washes them first.

But Jim has seen the curiosity burning brightly behind his eyes, knows he’s been turning every possibility over in his head trying to piece it together. Jim’s been racing the clock to finish ever since the Commissioner informed him he could come in and collect his badge. This thing he’s been working on…he wants Oz to have it before Jim goes back to work on Monday.

Finally, they arrive at the shop and Jim pushes the door open then switches on the lights. Oswald’s eyes drink everything in, before his eyebrows knit with confusion. Jim can’t help but grin, wishing he’d had the forethought to set up a video camera.

“James, light of my life,” Oswald says kindly, though his eyes are a story of pained exasperation, “did my umbrellas do something to offend you?”

Jim cackles shamelessly, grin widening as he looks over his shop—the space is littered with the remnants of several expensive dismantled umbrellas—and holds up his hands defensively. “I can explain.”

Oz turns to him, gaze worried. “ _Have_ you gone insane?”

Jim shakes his head, crosses over to the workbench he and Harvey had assembled, and snatches up one of the completed pieces. It’s a full-size, black umbrella with a finely carved, hooked cherry handle. Jim hands it to Oswald for his inspection. Oz furrows his brow, but humors Jim by opening it up and checking it out.

“It’s…very nice,” Oswald comments stiltedly. “I remember thinking so when I bought it…”

Jim smirks as he crosses the room and yanks the canvas drop cloth off of a steel reinforced range target. He then takes up the second umbrella from his table shop, grips it by the handle, pointing the tip down toward the ground. He gives the closed umbrella a stiff shake, so that the canopy slides down the shaft about an inch, then right back up with an audible click.

Jim then points it at the target and depresses the release button. He hits it dead center with a twenty-two round he’d preloaded into the umbrella’s chamber. Satisfied, he turns back to Oswald to find his fiancé staring back with wide-eyed disbelief. Oz opens his mouth as if to speak, but his lips seem to have trouble deciding which words to form.

Stupefied, Oswald finally manages a whispered, “What…”

Jim smiles proudly, then pops the canopy on the umbrella he’s just fired. “I modified them. Look,” Jim gestures to the open umbrella, waits for Oz’s gaze to follow before he continues. “I replaced the shaft with an eighteen-inch, twenty-two caliber rimfire barrel from a broke down Winchester I found at a gun show a few years back. I always meant to fix it up, but I just never got around to it. Figured it’d work pretty good for this purpose.”

Oswald runs his finger along the barrel, blinking as he looks back up to Jim. “You turned my umbrella into a rifle?”

Jim shrugs, bashful. “I messed with a couple of your canes too,” he confesses.

Oswald’s mouth drops open and then closes immediately again with a click. He is staring at him like he’s lost his mind, but Jim sniffs, figures it’s a bit of a shock for a few reasons, and continues on with his presentation. Oz’ll get it in the end, but Jim needs to get through all the features, so Oz doesn’t accidentally maim himself trying to use one.

“Look at the canopy,” Jim instructs. “It looks like vinyl, but it’s actually flexible Kevlar—Wayne Industry grade—supported by steel ribs and stretchers. It’ll hold up against shotgun spray and smaller slugs, but anything above a forty-four, you’re going to wanna avoid. It might be able to stop a poorly aimed shot from a higher caliber, but not a direct hit.”

Jim closes the umbrella, points it down at the floor. “If you’re too close to aim the rifle, all you gotta do is twist the handle and pull,” Jim says as he does just that, revealing a long, thin blade. “It’s not the largest blade—it wouldn’t fit alongside the trigger housing if it were any wider—but it’ll get the job done in a pinch.”

Oswald furrows his brow, taking in everything Jim has just shown him, before twisting the handle on the umbrella he’s been holding to extract another long blade. He admires it for a moment before hauling in a slow breath and replacing the blade back into its hidden sheath. He’s pensive as he places it back onto the work table, hugs his own elbow against his ribs, bringing his other hand to his mouth to bite nervously at his thumb.

Jim deflates. “You don’t like it?”

Oswald turns on him then, arms flailing as he declares, “Like them? Jim, they’re magnificent! I’m more than a little miffed I didn’t think of it myself. Honestly, James, of course I like them!

“It’s just,” Oz continues, calmer, as he approaches Jim, “this is quite a leap from disparaging my profession to—” he gestures at the umbrellas on the table, “basically supplying a notorious criminal with highly illegal firearms, Jim. It isn’t that I’m not thrilled, it’s…well, I’m concerned.”

Jim sighs and when Oswald is within range pulls him into an embrace. Oswald goes willingly, wrapping his arms securely around Jim’s waist, head coming to rest on his shoulder. Jim runs his hands up and down Oz’s spine, leans his chin against his forehead.

“I know how it looks, but there’s a method to my madness,” Jim asserts. He’s touched by Oswald’s concern, the way he puts Jim’s well being above his own desires. It’s something Jim never would have expected, at first.

Oswald is ruthless to the point of callous to those who impede his ambition or choose to challenge him. Yet, there is this side of him—this part of himself he keeps hidden from all but those he holds most dear. Jim is humbled to be among them, understands the significance of the gesture.

It’s a reminder that so much about Oz is a puzzle; A dangerous and beautiful query.

“I await your exposition with bated breath,” Oswald pushes, snapping Jim from his reverie.

“I didn’t make you an umbrella-themed arsenal for shits and giggles, Oz,” Jim says, finally. “I just don’t ever want you to find yourself in another situation where you don’t have some kind of upper hand against an attacker.”

Oswald hums, leans back to gaze up at Jim with a softened expression. “I confess, there has been some…lingering anxiety,” he admits. “What with your imminent return to work looming.”

“Well,” Jim replies, with a rueful quirk of his lips, “you’re not the only one. I know it’s not practical—”

“Au contraire!” Oswald argues turning from Jim’s arms and swiping up one of the canes now. He holds it across both open palms, as if taking its measure. “This might be the most practical application of weaponry I’ve ever seen.”

As Oz makes to replace the cane, his finger slips over a release mechanism near the round grip of the handle. It isn’t a finished piece, which is why Jim didn’t explain their features just yet. Before he can so much as shout a warning, a dart fires from the end of the cane, burying itself into the wall just left of the range target.

Oz turns to Jim with squinted eyes. “Darts, Jim?”

“Impractical,” Jim reiterates with a shrug, “but efficient.”

Oz giggles. “Where the hell did you even learn how to do this? I thought you were in here building furniture or something equally mundane.”

Jim snorts, carefully relieving Oswald of his weaponized walking stick. He places it safely on the table, vowing to walk Oz through each and every feature before letting him carry one. For now, he brackets Oz in against the edge of the table and jabs him in the rib with his index finger.

“Mundane, huh? You callin’ me boring?” He teases.

“You are many things, James Gordon,” Oswald manages to reply between fighting off Jim’s assault, “but boring could never be one of them.”

Satisfied with that answer, Jim swoops in for a kiss. He doesn’t even try to keep it friendly, desperate with the knowledge that they’ll soon be spending far less time together come Monday. No more waking up wrapped around Oz in the afternoon, sharing late breakfasts or staying up into the wee hours of the morning, cuddled up watching crappy reruns.

“What kind of things am I, then?” Jim asks when he leans back.

Oz hums, smile mischievous. “Obstinate, self-righteous, opinionated,” he lists.

Jim frowns, glaring.

“Yes, exactly.” Oz winks, hooks his fingers through Jim’s belt loops and yanks him between the V of his spread legs. “It’s all very sexy,” Oswald adds then, raising his arms and wrapping them around Jim’s neck, so there’s no space between them as he presses their foreheads together. His expression is entirely sincere, however, when he says, “Sweet, thoughtful, self-sacrificing.”

“Mine.” Oz pecks Jim softly on the tip of his nose, then adds, exasperatedly, “A gunsmith, apparently. Is there anything you can’t do? Honestly, you’re giving me a complex.”

“Oh, I give you a complex?” Jim asks sarcastically. “Mister Mayor? Blimp flying, savior of the city? Mister Entrepreneur with his goddamned floating casino?”

Oswald giggles. “You’re right—we are quite the power couple.”

“Mmm, humble too.”

“Some things are worthy of note,” Oswald insists.

 Jim doesn’t have anything to say that, closes the tiny distance between them to steal a kiss instead. He makes a quick grab behind Oz’s knees, hauls him up onto the table, pushing his thighs apart until his trousers go taut with the strain. Oswald is flushed when Jim lifts his gaze, and he smirks.

“Like that?” Jim asks, teasingly, as he runs his hands up Oz’s thighs.

Oswald’s blush deepens as he replies, bashful, “You know I like it when you...”

Jim hums smugly at Oswald’s sudden inability to articulate. It’s such a rarity, he can’t let it pass; slips his hands just under the hem of Oz’s [waistcoat](https://www.dresslily.com/belt-single-breasted-vertical-stripe-waistcoat-product2267111.html?lkid=1862462&gclid=EAIaIQobChMI77C3ifvx2wIV1LjACh2CnQOaEAQYBSABEgLJkvD_BwE) as he leans in and brushes his lips behind his ear. “Like it when I put you in your place?”

“My place?” Oswald questions, indignant. “And where is that, exactly, might I ask?”

Jim wraps an arm around the small of Oswald’s back, pulls him forward until they’re flush.  The other fists the hair at the back of Oz’s head, tugs it back to bare the man’s throat. “Wherever the fuck I want you,” Jim rasps in answer, before taking advantage of Oz’s gaping mouth, licking inside with sensual intent.

Oz’s hands slide down and behind Jim’s hips, to slip into the back pockets of his [jeans](https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/786863366114351120/) and latch on to his ass. Oswald uses his grip as a point of leverage to grind them together, and Jim moans into their kiss. He wedges his own hands between them to get at the fastenings of Oswald’s trousers, makes quick work of the button and fly, so he can shove a hand inside and draw Oz’s cock out into the open air between them.

He pulls away from Oz’s mouth, slides one hand up to put gentle, firm pressure against his throat. Oz exhales with a gasp, blue eyes electric wild fire, as Jim pushes him down by the throat until his back is flat against the table.

“Jim…” Oswald squirms, his hips bucking for friction. It draws Jim’s attention to Oz’s heavy, uncut length, rosy head just peeking out from within its foreskin.

Jim has to taste it; ducks his head and licks, a light circle around the seam. Oz cries out, hands pushing at Jim’s shoulders. He ignores the heavy-handed hint, opting instead to suck kisses all down the shaft until his lips and teeth encounter the elastic of Oz’s [panties](https://www.hisroom.com/male-power-163-194-neon-lace-double-pleasure-trunk.shtml) at its base.

 It’s a new pair; neon pink lace and basically crotchless with a glory hole sewn into the fabric. They’re as ostentatious as the man that wears them, and Jim loves them instantly. He growls as he takes a moment to draw one lace-ensconced testicle into his mouth, thrilling at the punched-out whimpers it earns him, before lavishing the other with equal affection.

Jim wants to take Oz apart, but not in the workshop surrounded by pointy objects and spare parts. As he’s contemplating a strategy, Oswald’s patience reaches critical mass.

“Should I add tease to the list, James?” Oswald inquires with a huff, “Or are you going to get on with it and su—What the hell are you doing?!”

Jim adjusts Oswald, having just hauled him up, where he’s now balanced precariously over Jim’s shoulders in a fireman’s carry. He alters his gait as he takes them out of the workshop and back down the hall. Ideal as their bedroom would be, no way is he gonna make it up those stairs unless he puts Oswald down—and he’s enjoying Oswald’s screeching far too much for that. He heads for the library instead.

“Methinks the penguin doth protest too much.”

“What is it with you and Hamlet today?” Oswald groans.

Jim shoulders the door open, pinches Oswald’s backside before he lays him out over the [brown leather chaise](https://www.wayfair.com/furniture/pdp/astoria-grand-maio-chaise-lounge-argd8738.html) that sits just off to the right of the entrance. “To tease or not to tease,” Jim responds cheekily as he peels Oswald out of his trousers and shoes, “that is the question.”

Oswald glares, before quipping back reproachfully, “Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.”

Jim kneels at the end of the chair, his hands sliding up Oswald’s legs as he spreads them open, so he can settle himself on his stomach between them. He spares no time picking up where they left off in the shop, nuzzling his nose against the hairless, lace-clad space between Oz’s sack and the tight little muscle of his entrance. He places a kiss just there before looking up to catch Oz’s eyes.

“Never unkind, sweetheart,” he promises, holding Oz’s half-lidded gaze, before he opens his mouth and takes his cock all the way down to the root. Jim ignores his gag reflex, groaning at the picture Oswald paints, with his head thrown back as far as the raised seat of the chaise will allow, spine arched as his hands grip the sides of the chair and his body trembles with the effort of restraint. He’s still wearing his button up dress shirt and tie under that fancy vest, looking so fucking proper while Jim sucks him off in the middle of the library.

Unbidden, Jim is taken by a fantasy of himself on his knees, hiding under Oz’s executive desk at the lounge. Mouth wrapped around his cock while Oswald conducts business, prim and cutting, with the unwitting masses. Not even sucking, just holding it there, nothing more than a place where Oswald can keep his soft dick nice and warm all day long.

His own cock gives a sharp pang at the fantasy, and Jim moans as he bobs his head. The hand he isn’t using to support Oz’s cock is plunged desperately into his jeans, squeezed between his body and the chair, so Jim can fuck into his own fist. He doesn’t understand why it’s so good, why the idea gets him so hot. In moments like these, where the heat is all he can focus on, Jim doesn’t care about the reasons for, or the implications of his fantasies.

He just wants. Can’t breathe with how badly he wants it.

It isn’t going to take long, not with how keyed up he is. Oswald catches on quickly, as he always does, grips Jim by the hair as he places his feet flat on the long seat of the chair and braces a hand behind his back.

Jim’s eyes roll up into his head, then, as Oswald forces his cock down his throat over, and over. He’s using Jim, taking his own pleasure, as Jim moans wantonly around his girth. Maybe it’s wrong, to crave such objectification, but Jim has so many ideas about all the ways in which Oswald could use his body like a tool.

He forces his eyes open with that thought, and is met with Oswald’s wide-eyed wonder, his breathy little groans pouring out between parted lips. Jim growls, unhands himself and pulls off Oz’s cock before jumping up to hastily shuck his jeans and boxers. He sits himself down beside Oz, mirroring his position before pulling the man into his lap so he can wrap a hand around them both. Oz rocks into his grip, seemingly more than happy to be in Jim’s lap as his hands roam all over, like he can’t decide which part of Jim is his favorite. Jim is just as desperate, kisses Oz with the urgency of all the pent-up desires he can’t yet put to words.

When they finally break apart for air, Jim shoves his fore and middle fingers into Oswald’s mouth, works them in and out in an obscene simulation, whispering a promise, “Fuck, baby. M’gonna make you come all over that fancy shirt.”

Oz smirks then, biting down suddenly, as he meets Jim’s eyes with a wicked glint. He reaches a hand up beneath Jim’s Henley, fingers slowly walking up, and up, and Jim is powerless to stop him, hands thoroughly occupied.

He shakes his head, pulse ratcheting. “Fuck, Oz, if you do it, I’m gonna—”

Oz pinches his nipple and twists.

Jim will never admit to it, but he maybe screams. Just a little. He’s the one coming all over Oz’s dry-cleaning, at any rate, and just about everything else between them. Oswald doesn’t relinquish his hold until Jim has emptied himself entirely.

When he does, it’s just so he can grab the wooden bezel that frames the top of the chair and pull himself up with a foot planted on either side of Jim’s hips. He swipes a hand through the mess Jim has made of his shirt and uses it to ease the friction as he brings himself off with quick, hard strokes.

When Oz climaxes, it’s with unrestrained delight, breathlessly chuckling as he aims it right at Jim’s exposed neck. Jim raises his head just enough to give Oswald a dirty look before dipping his finger into the mess and licking it clean with an exaggerated moan.

Oz lowers his chin quirking an eyebrow at Jim’s insolence, before he climbs down from the chair. Ever the tactician, Oswald comes at him from the side of the chaise, then, hooking an arm behind Jim’s knee and pulling his leg back and up. He then swats a haphazard blow against Jim’s newly exposed cheek, glancing slightly against his hole in the process. The sensation—unexpected, and admittedly more than a little confusing—goes straight to Jim’s over-sensitized dick. He whimpers, kicking out with a flinch so hard it unbalances Oz and sends him crashing to the floor.

For short, quiet moments, they regard one another with equally bewildered gazes. Oz’s stare quickly morphs to analytical, however, and Jim can feel heat rushing to his face, humiliated by his own reaction. The shit he fantasizes about is embarrassing enough without adding spanking to the list.

Oswald has proven he wouldn’t judge, but that doesn’t mean he’d be comfortable with the stuff that goes on Jim’s head sometimes. The things he sometimes gets scarily close to asking for when they’re in the heat of the moment. Hell, Jim knows there are things they’re already doing that make Oz apprehensive, and he is absolutely satisfied with what they have—Oswald is nothing if not remarkably accommodating and Jim doesn’t need anything else.    

He doesn’t.

“Sorry,” he says, voice rougher than he’d like. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

Oswald’s eyes go wide with regret. “Did I hurt you?”

“What?” Jim shakes his head. “No.”

“What’s the matter, then?”

“Nothing, baby,” Jim denies, thrown by Oz’s open, unguarded eyes. He never holds anything back, never asks for too much, goes out of his way to set Jim at ease. God, he’s so fucking perfect. Not in the traditional sense, maybe, but he’s perfect for Jim, is the thing.

He’s told Oswald things he’s never felt safe enough to tell anyone else, but he doesn’t want to jeopardize what they have by relying on Oswald’s acceptance too heavily, by being too needy. Or, too much…just. Too much.

He clenches his teeth against the familiar anxiety. Why can’t he just have sex like a normal person anymore? He used to be normal, sort of. Mostly. He used to be good at pretending to be normal, okay? He could push aside those errant fantasies like it was nothing, but Oz went and gave his hidden desires a single, solitary inch and now it’s like a fucking damn has broken. Jim can’t rebuild it quickly enough, isn’t even sure how he erected it in the first place.

Oz interrupts his train of thought by asking, “Did you like it?”

Jim knew the question was coming, but there’s really no way to prepare for being asked if you liked being spanked, as an adult, especially if the answer is a resounding yes. Jim carefully regulates his breathing, but the stone silence that settles between them, the tension wound into his own body, betrays the truth seemingly just to spite him.

Oswald’s eyes are warm, acceptance written in every line of his being from where he sits on the floor, half dressed and completely unashamed, gazing up at Jim earnestly, as he says, “Is that something you wan—”

“ _No_ ,” Jim interjects, too harshly probably, feeling panicked. His chest feels like it’s being compressed beneath some unseen weight. “I don’t need…I don’t need anything else, alright? I’m fine.”

Oz’s brows knit as he lifts off the floor and goes to retrieve his trousers. Jim wants to protest, apologize for whatever he’s done to turn him away. He can’t. He’s locked up, tongue pressed stubbornly to the roof of his mouth between clenched teeth.

Oswald returns quickly, at least, trousers replaced but not his shoes. He’s got towels in one hand, probably retrieved from the bathroom across the hall, a glass of water in the other and a blanket draped over his arm. He places the water on a nearby side table, then perches beside Jim’s hip.

As Oz gently swipes a warm towel over Jim’s neck and chest, he calmly chastises Jim’s recalcitrance. “I understand there are some things about your sexuality which are difficult for you, Jim,” he says, “but don’t insult me by insisting that you’re ‘fine’ when you’re clearly two steps away from some kind of breakdown. Lies do not become you, James, and you’re terrible at telling them besides.”

“M’sorry,” Jim manages to grind out the apology as Oswald unfolds the blanket. He tugs on Oswald’s sleeve, entreating. “Please.”

With a sigh, Oswald tosses Jim his boxers and they arrange themselves on the chaise, so that Oswald is sat with his back against the chair, Jim leaning between his thighs with one ear pressed to Oz’s chest. Jim has both arms wrapped around Oz’s waist, and one of Oswald’s legs twined comfortably between both of his own.

Jim should maybe feel a little silly, lying there in his underwear beneath the blanket while Oz is fully dressed, but it’s warm and comfy and he’s too lazy to move any more than he already has. Oswald is playing with Jim’s hair, a habit he has that seems to calm them both.

Jim closes his eyes, takes in the familiar scent of leather and old pressed paper. The library is one of his favorite rooms—cozy and quiet—and Jim has spent hours here reading outdated encyclopedias from the nineteen-thirties. He loves the way people used to communicate facts, written to be more relatable than precise.

Finally, his tongue loosens. “I liked it.”

“You don’t like that you liked it,” Oz responds, knowingly.

“Kind of.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” Oswald pushes, pressing a kiss to the crown of Jim’s head. “You don’t have to hide these things from me, Jim. I thought we were past that.”

“I know.” Jim furrows his brow, rubs a hand over his mouth. “I just, there are a lot of…” He can feel himself getting upset again. “It’s all really fucked up, Oz,” he blurts, jaw tight.

“Jim,” Oz starts, entirely rational, “you’re engaged to a man with a wardrobe full of effeminate underwear, stockings and one tailored evening gown that you, yourself, bought.

“I’m fairly certain deeming anything you might want as ‘fucked up’ is putting the cart before the horse at this juncture.”

Jim sighs, frustrated with himself and his inability to explain this in a way that doesn’t require explicit descriptions of his humiliating fantasies. “You don’t understand. It’s on an entirely different level, Oz, some of the things I think about when we’re—”

“Sounds to me,” Oswald interrupts, “that you’ve already decided you want these things, but that what you’re really afraid of is rejection. Even though you know I’d give it to you, Jim. All of it. Anything. If you just _ask_.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Jim insists, miserable. “I know you worry about going too far as it is. There’s things…I think you’d be surprised just how deep that rabbit hole can go, is all I’m trying to say.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to humor me. I could have been happy having vanilla sex with you for the rest of our lives, I promise. We don’t have to go there. And you shouldn’t just write blank checks like that—when I…when you—”

“Okay, fuck it.” Jim huffs. If he can’t even say it, he’s got no business doing it. “When I _submit_ to you—it’s not okay if you aren’t comfortable with that kind of control. And you shouldn’t use me the way I want you to, unless you want it too.”

Oswald hums, takes a few minutes to reply. “I admit, this is all very new to me, Jim. You are the only lover I’ve ever had—the only person who’s ever wanted me.”

Jim’s chest constricts painfully at the guileless way in which that statement is made. “Oz.”

“It’s true,” Oswald solemnly insists. “Despite that fact, however, caring for you in submission seems…instinctual on some level. I was taken aback by it, at first—you are the last person I would have expected to trust me so thoroughly—but I find it…enthralling.

“It engages me in ways that transcend the physical.”

Jim sits up a little at that, intrigued. “What do you mean?”

Oswald tilts his head, considering. “There’s a strategic element, having to be able to read your reactions and anticipate any shifts in your threshold. Then,” Oswald licks his lips, and explains, “there’s the emotional component. Placing your trust in me, Jim, makes me want to be worthy of it. I know what it costs you, and I feel closer to you for it.”

“Oh.” Jim finds himself in awe, once again, at Oswald’s capacity for emotion. The depths to which he feels, and how thoroughly he understands himself. It’s an enviable trait.

“What’s it like for you?” Oswald asks, like it’s something he’s been dying to know but unwilling to question. “What do you get out of it?”

“Relief,” Jim is able to reply, without hesitation.

“From…?”

“From pressure,” he clarifies, “obligation, accountability. Noise. And, when it’s over, I don’t know, it’s the same, I think. Closeness. Letting you see me stripped bare, all the hidden parts of me and you…

“Take care of me.” Jim swallows around the lump in his throat. “Don’t hurt me. Don’t mock me. Don’t look at me any different after.”

“I’ll always take care of you,” Oswald promises, squeezing Jim tightly. Then as if struck by lightning, he sucks in a breath, and says, “Let’s make a list!”

Jim blinks. “A list of what?”

“Sex, _duh_!” He exclaims, giddy in a way that is patently Oswald, rolling his eyes with fond exasperation. “We can both do one, and then exchange and write down which items we agree on, or don’t and which ones we might be into upon further discussion.”

Jim squints. “That’s…awfully practical.”

“Yes, well,” Oz concedes, gesturing to himself proudly, “former mayor.”

“You don’t think that would…I don’t know.” Jim appreciates the idea but, once again, feels like he’s making more trouble than it’s worth. “Eliminate the spontaneity?”

Oswald furrows his brow, lips pursed as he shakes his head. “Of course not. It’s not like we’re making a schedule, silly. You just implied I’m uncomfortable with dominating you.”

Jim averts his eyes, nods.

“I’m not,” Oswald insists, cupping Jim’s jaw and gently forcing eye contact. “I’m not, and our color system works very well. However, there are times when I have to guess where to go next. More than I’m comfortable with. I have a near eidetic memory, Jim1. A list…would be an excellent roadmap.

“And perhaps writing your ideas down will prove easier for you than talking about them outright. We can always discuss them after, but at least this way I already have context and you won’t have to be put on the spot.”

Jim turns the idea over in his head. He’s never kept a journal, but Jim is intimately familiar with writing detailed police reports. It might be less intimidating to write a list, hand it off, and wait for a reply rather than trying to keep his mouth shut in the moment. As for spontaneity…Jim has to concede that some of his fantasies would have to require careful planning just to pull off. Especially the latest one…

Fuck.

“Okay,” he agrees. “We’ll make a list.”

“Perfect.” Oswald shifts as he reaches into his vest to extract his pocket watch. “I think we missed our dinner reservations,” he laments.

Jim’s stomach growls as if to echo the sentiment, and he huffs a laugh as he makes to unfurl from their cocoon. “Guess I kind of derailed our evening, huh?”

Oswald shrugs. “I prefer sex to food these days, actually,” he replies cheerily. He adds, “I’m sure there’s macaroni or something in the pantry.”

Jim snorts. “You’re filthy rich and you eat mac and cheese.”

“I had it put on the shopping list for you, darling,” Oswald informs haughtily. “Your taste buds have been permanently damaged by street hotdogs and over-cooked cabbage.” 

“Hey, Pete’s sauerkraut has five annual awards from the paper,” Jim defends.

“What can I say? This city is full of ugly Americans.”

“Yeah?” Jim leans forward, presses their foreheads together as he says, “You’re about to marry one of these ugly Americans.”

Oswald smiles, eyes dancing with mirth. “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

A sudden thought crops up then, figures he may as well raise it now while they’re on the subject. “Speaking of, whose last name are we using? Or…do you wanna hyphenate?”

“I’m afraid hyphenating would exceed the character count for your badge,” Oswald teases before his expression grows serious. “I was actually wondering…well, I’ll always be proud of my heritage, but Cobblepot wasn’t even my mother’s name. It’s the Americanized version, and it well…”

Oz ducks his head, fidgeting with his thumbs as he mumbles. “Well, no. We should probably just keep our own names, Jim.”

Jim regards Oswald closely. “What for?”

Oswald shrugs. “It would be very inconvenient, don’t you think? All that paperwork.”

“Now who’s the one withholding?” Jim replies, testily. “Come on, Oz. You can’t ask me to be open about my hang ups and then,” he shrugs, gestures with his hands to encompass whatever it is Oz is currently working through, “do this.”

Oswald frowns, clearly weighing his options and none too happy at having been called out. Jim quirks an expectant brow before Oswald rolls his eyes, relenting. He then takes in a deep breath and straightens his spine as he looks Jim in the eye.

“It would be distasteful of me to take up your name, Jim.” Oswald states plainly, knocking the wind right of Jim’s lungs. “Which is what I was originally thinking to suggest but saying it aloud…well. It would make you look foolish, and I can’t promise I would never unintentionally debase it.

“Likewise, assuming my name would only further distance you from your colleagues and the good graces of the press. Therefore, neither is best, I think.”

“Your so goddamned clever, Oswald,” Jim says as Oz slumps back against the chair, so very unhappy, “but that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Oswald’s gaze shoots back up, eyes flashing. He sets his jaw and it’s obvious he has more disparaging comments to make about himself.

So, Jim continues before he can get a word in edge-wise, because he doesn’t need to hear it to know it’s bullshit. “We’re getting married, it’s happening—whether my boss likes it, the press likes it, or your fucked-up circle of allies likes it, or not—and everyone will know the second we sign the license. They’ll be printing it in the paper the next day.”

Oz sighs, still reluctant. “Yes, but not everyone reads—”

“No,” Jim declares, firm. “They don’t get to decide for us. Your name, my name, it doesn’t matter to me, but it has fuck-all to do with anybody else.”

Oswald’s eyes are wet when he lifts them back to Jim’s. He takes a shaky breath before he mumbles, “I just…never thought…”

“I know.” Jim kisses Oz’s temple. “But things are different between us now, aren’t they? Neither of us are the same people we were when we met, Oz. I need you to trust that, the same way I do.”

Jim lets it settle between them for a few moments before he asks, “Do you really want us to keep our names?”

Oz sniffs, shakes his head.

“What’s your preference then?” He gently insists.

With an audible swallow, eyes still averted, Oz replies quietly, “I want to be Oswald Gordon.”

Jim lifts Oz’s chin with a palm against his jaw. His eyes are still wary, like there’s still some chance he’ll be denied. If Jim needs to work on his communication, then Oswald needs to work on his self-esteem. If it weren’t so heartbreaking—if he didn’t know his own part in tearing it down—Jim would be offended.

Instead, he vows to himself to do better.

“Oswald Gordon,” Jim repeats, smiling. “I like the sound of that.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1: I’ve alluded to Oz’s ability to memorize details. I know they’ve never talked about it in the show, and I haven’t read ALL the comics, but it’s not claimed to be part of his characterization on his wiki page either which draw from everything. So, I’m assuming I’m just making this up, but it makes sense to me that he would have at least close to eidetic memory given his ability to keep his lies straight between all the people he fucks over, especially in seasons 1 and 2 when he literally starts that war with nothing but carefully crafted story-telling. I mean. Whoa. I think it’s almost just a given that he has, maybe not Sherlockian levels of memory space, but definitely above average.
> 
>  
> 
> Just as an aside, I also know umbrella are the main trademark of the Penguin, but Oz carries around his cane a lot too and so I thought it only made sense that Jim would fuck those as well. Just for when Oz doesn’t have the other one, lol. Also, I get it if you think it’s way off base for Jim to even so much as give Oz a weapon let alone assemble an umbrella arsenal but this is an AU, and most veterans I know could easily make their own custom weapons so I don’t this is too far-fetched given it’s a) my world now, damn it, and b) All Jim found of Oz when he was kidnapped by Roman was his umbrella. Kinda left a mark.
> 
>  
> 
> I dunno! Let me know what you guys think in the comments. I love talking headcanons and discussing this stuff, truly. <3
> 
>  


End file.
